


against promise

by goldbooksblack



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Angst, F/M, Read at Your Own Risk, jurdan - Freeform, no smut so y'all can just turn away now, some charles dickens thrown in because why not?, this is incoherent af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: He had been a soft child.He'd grown up cruel.Five vignettes of Cardan's life.





	against promise

**Author's Note:**

> Just as the summary promises. Five vignettes of Cardan's life. 
> 
> **I do apologize for the frequent switches between simple past and a strange passive past tense, though! That's on me.

I.

“Never be mean in anything. Never be false. Never be cruel.”

-Charles Dickens, _David Copperfield_

 

She’d left when he’d been three.

He could barely remember his mother, tall, dark-haired, beautiful. Could barely remember anything beyond that. _She’s kind,_ one courtier had once told him. _Smart._ She was kind, and she was smart.

And she was gone.

She hadn’t come to see her son before she’d cleared out her room and departed. Self-exiled to the edges of the court.

So he’d been raised by a series of nursemaids and attendants. Ones who saw his pain as tantrums, his confusion as stupidity. Ones who saw him as nothing more than the sixth son of the High King, a boy that was lucky to have been born at all. _He’s nothing,_ they’d murmur. _Just a prince._

Just a prince. As if it was supremely common. Just a prince.

But he’d taken it. There was little else to do, at that age. Little else to do except sleep and eat in Eldred’s castle, and go to lessons. Over time, he formed a group of friends. Allies. There was Nicasia, who had been a beautiful girl and had grown into a beautiful vicious girl. There was Valerian, who was a fool of a boy and had grown into a violent fool. There was Locke, who had been a quiet child and had grown up into a deceitful man. And there was him.

He had been a soft child.

He had grown up cruel.

 

II.

“Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.”

-Charles Dickens, _Great Expectations_

 

He’d watched the feast from his position at the end of the table.

There was the visiting courtier, who’d been happily consuming a slice of game pie; there had been his own advisors, who were chatting away to each other. He’d spotted Nicasia, her blue hair vibrant in the candlelight. And Locke, fiery hair even redder in the dim light, his smile dangerous. And to his left, he’d seen her.

He’d heard what they called her in whispers. _Jude Kingmaker,_ they would say in awe. Fear. Disgust, even. _She’s the one who crowned him._

Misconceptions, of course. It had been Oak who’d crowned him. Oak, who still had no idea what he meant, not even a little. Who was living in the mortal world, hardly any cares in the world.

His grip on the arm of his chair had tightened. Oh, but he knew. Knew the facets of the game, knew the pawns laid out before him.

His gaze had landed on the woman before him. Not girl, not mortal. _Woman_. They had been children once; no more. He’d watched as she raised her glass to her lips—water, not wine—and took a tiny sip before turning to the lord next to her. Mouth opening in a faux little giggle. He’d watched as her eyes slid to him, muscles tightening almost imperceptibly in her jaw.

His goblet raised in a mocking gesture, he’d taken a deep sip. The wine had been saccharine and foul on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Her eyes had still been on him as he’d set down the chalice.

 

III.

“The broken heart. You think that you will die. But you just keep living, day after terrible day.”

-Charles Dickens, _Great Expectations_

 

The word had left her lips. Buried within a deluge of arrows.

“No.”

He’d frozen at the sound, one tiny syllable. “I’m sorry?”

She’d looked up at him, back against the wall, one hand slipping slowly down from the back of his neck. He’d had to crane his neck down to look at her, one hand still pressed against the wall behind her. “We can’t do this.”

He’d fought a hard swallow down his throat. “Why?”

“I—” he saw it. The war within her, the unspoken truth of _I want this just as much as you do_ “—we can’t. We just can’t.”

“I’m asking for a reason, _Jude_.”

She’d shuddered at the way her name had left his lips. They both had. Her cheeks had pressed to the cold stone behind her as she turned her face away. He’d brought it back, fingers tipping her chin forward. “Jude.”

She had looked at him then, really looked at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He’d leaned forward. “Like what?” He had murmured. She didn’t flinch as he moved closer, fingers low enough to brush against her waist, breath warm against her cheek. _“Like what?”_

The words were almost lost as their lips met in a blaze of defiance.

“Like you care.”

 

IV.

“If ever there were love in the world, I love her.”

-Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_

 

He’d almost been unable to look at her.

She’d been asleep. Blanket drawn up to her chest. Legs tangled in the rest of the sheets. Arms curled instinctively inwards towards the bed as if he had still been there. To hold her.

He’d woken up with her body still pressed to his, the softness of her skin against his, the fit of her head underneath his chin. He’d woken up with her legs twisted in his, the sheets lost underneath them and the blankets not much better. He’d woken up with last night. Last night’s flashes of her taste, of her lips, of her sounds—her, her, her.

He’d looked at her. Every single exquisite detail, every crease, every flutter, every breath. He’d looked at her for gods knew how long. Perhaps for hours, for days, for years. He’d looked at her until he couldn’t, until the sight of her—of _her,_ not her—became too much. Until he had to twist away, disentangle her limbs from his, until he’d had to sit on the edge of the bed, countenance turned away.

He’d sunk his chin into his palms, then his elbows into his thighs. Heart in stomach and head in hands. And he’d stayed that way, until—

“How long did he whip you?”

His voice had been a rasp. “Years.”

He’d shuddered at the feel of the tips of her fingers on his back. Tracing the silvery scars marring his skin. He wondered if his brother had realized it. Realized that marking him would shred his reputation even more. Realized that Fae were perfect, and Cardan had not been born as such. Realized that Cardan would never be after the whippings.

Arms had slipped around his waist. A cheek pressed to his back. His own fingers came up to press against hers, to turn slightly. He’d withdrawn from the embrace to look at her. To ghost his fingers along her exposed sides, to watch as she held his gaze, dark eyes matching his. They’d been rough last night, but this . . . this was much different.

He’d let his forehead press against hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her body radiating out. Pressure on the back of his neck had alerted him to the weight of her arm against it, drawing him closer. He’d hardly let himself hope, hope for anything close to this.

Silence, blissful, accepting silence, had overtaken them.

 

V.

“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragements that could be.”

-Charles Dickens, _Great Expectations_

 

She’d woken up in a cold sweat. Thrashing about, her throat very nearly raw from screaming. He’d been woken up too, his arm red from her scratching at it. He’d called her name, over and over, until finally she turned to him. Only hurt in her eyes.

His arms had tucked around her until she was back safely in his embrace. Her entire body shaking, her fingers pressing against his chest. Lightly? Delicately? No, Jude was not delicate. Far from it.

“I killed him.” The words had been a breath, an exhale, like a thought sinking to the ground. “I _killed_ him.”

She had no shortage of enemies, but he knew. He knew. “He was a fool.” There was no part of him that mourned Valerian’s loss. No part of him that counted him among his own losses. Such was the nature of Faeries.

Her gaze had been distant. “Still.”

_Still._

How many times had he heard the word fall from peoples’ lips?

How many times had he heard Nicasia sob over the loss of her court? _They don’t see me as their princess. And still . . ._

How many times had he heard Locke twist it? _She said she didn’t like me. Still . . ._

And how many times had he said it himself?

_My mother left me. Still . . ._

_My father spared me little attention. Still . . ._

_Balekin whipped me raw. Still . . ._

And now, to hear it from Jude . . .

“Still what?” He’d whispered roughly. “Still what? So he was someone. Still? He nearly killed you. He nearly killed you. He—” he’d swallowed at that point, his mind blank with unspeakable rage. She’d looked up at him, her eyes wide. “So he was someone to someone,” he said softly. “We are . . . we are all someone to someone.”

But to him? To who? Not his mother. Not his father. Not his family, what was left of it. So—

“Like you,” Her words were breathed in the crook of his neck. He’d trembled. “Like you are.”

“To who, darling?”

“To me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


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